Seeking Acceptance
by Philtrum
Summary: A glimpse at the childhood of Francis Dolarhyde.


Title: Seeking Acceptance

Characters/Pairing: Francis Dolarhyde, Mrs. Dolarhyde (Grandma). No pairings.

Rating: M

Disclaimer: I do not own Red Dragon.

Author's Note: **Warnings - Mentioned Abuse (Not all that graphic), "Vulgar" Language, Not suitable for children. **

Summary: A glimpse at the childhood of Francis Dolarhyde.

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"Oh, Francis. Get up! Up!"

The frail child clambered to his feet, his eyes staring pitifully down at the white tile floor. From under his bangs he could see the tips of his grandmother's ragged night shoes. She stood at the edge of the shallow pool of blood coagulating on the floor, the grout line acting as a trench to keep it from hitting her feet. It was useless, though. Not a minute later she planted her foot in the liquid as she marched him over to the bathtub resting against the far back wall. With a gnarled hand she twisted one of the knobs, sending cold, dirty water pouring into the porcelain basin.

"Wash yourself, then clean this mess up!"

With that she stormed from the bathroom. Francis sniffed the best he could, angrily wiping at the tears that poured down his cheeks. His gaze stayed on the floor as he pulled off his shirt. He let it fall to the ground and reached over to turn the hot water knob before the tub could fill with cold water. For a moment he deliberated on whether he would clean the blood on the floor or take a bath first. The water reached the fill line, which was marked by years of grime, taking away his choice. He turned both knobs to stop the flow of water and lifted himself into the tub.

The water was barely lukewarm, sending an unpleasant shiver down his spine. He winced as the dirt and water rushed into his self-inflicted wounds. Moving into a sitting position, he grabbed the ungodly looking scrub brush and raked it across his skin like Grandma taught him to. The wire-like bristles scraped his skin, leaving it an angry red, but he knew better than to skip it. Grandma would take him by the neck later and inspect his skin to look for those tiny scratches. If there weren't any she would know he didn't wash properly and he'd be punished. Some of the scratches bled, mixing a brilliant red color into the dirty water like smoke curling into the wind.

Francis didn't understand why grandma was angry with him again. He had been so desperate for her approval that he hurt himself the way she always hurt him, but she still got angry with him. It didn't make sense. He really didn't do anything this time, and he was going to clean up the blood like always. Maybe she was tired. He must have woken her up with his cries by accident. How could he have been so stupid? Grandma was right; he was pathetic.

He hesitated when he reached his groin. Grandma made him scrub there really hard most the time. He doubted she would check, but sometimes she did, and if she checked and there weren't any scratches there he'd be punished. Francis really hated being punished. He stared down at the deep, jagged cuts littering the the smooth skin around the base of his penis, and the few that even ventured up it. Most of them had quit bleeding, but not all of them. If Grandma punished him, she'd make it hurt a lot worse that he would. Having made up his mind, Francis sucked in a deep breath.

He sunk the teeth that he had into the corner of his tongue, and squeezed his eyes shut tight, then dragged the brush up and down his groin. Whimpers escaped him, but he knew not to cry out. If he woke Grandma twice in one night she'd do a lot worse than punish him. The pain brought tears to his eyes, and his other hand slapped over his mouth when a sob tore from his throat. It hurt so bad, like the time Grandma poured that strange liquid on his arm when he fell and cut it open. His skin had stunk of chemicals for days after that, and he kept throwing up. Grandma had punished him.

When he decided he was done, he opened his eyes and gasped. The water was now opaque, and tinged a deep crimson. He retracted his hand from the water. The offending appendage came back coated in filth and speckled with blood. Hurriedly he scrubbed his legs, then replaced the brush, and hopped out of the water.

Even as he stood there shivering in the cool air of the bathroom, his cuts bled. The droplets of blood raced down his legs, mingling with the water clinging to his skin, and fell onto the floor with a resounding 'plop'. He spun, his eyes frantic as he grasped at the dull grey towel hanging on the rack. He pressed it to the cuts, gasping as pain engulfed the area. It quickly soaked with blood, but he still used it to dry the rest of his body off.

By the time he was finished the cuts had stopped bleeding as profusely. He pulled his clothes back on and knelt beside the pool of blood, eyeing the footprints left by his grandma with a frown flexing the right corner of his mouth. He turned to the left, reaching out to pull open the cupboard under the sink. Inside was a wire scrubbing brush and a bottle of 'cleaner', as Grandma had called it. He grabbed both and closed the cupboard door.

He scrubbed the floor much as he had scrubbed himself. He knew from experience that blood stains were the hardest to get off the tile floor. One time he wondered why people even put grout between tiles—only once. He made the mistake of wondering aloud and Grandma happened to hear him as she was passing by the open door. He could still hear the ghost of his Grandma's voice screeching insults at him, while he endured the sharp blows to his body she delivered with that horrid cane of hers.

His arms were getting tired. He looked down to see that most of the stain was gone, and the liquid cleaner had combined with the blood to make a lovely shade of dark maroon. Reaching behind him, he took the discarded towel he had used to dry himself off, and laid it over the wet part of the floor. Then he moved to repeat the process on the four foot prints leading to the bathtub. When he finished he was holding a sopping wet towel soaked with chemicals, water, and blood, but the floor was back to a dull, almost unstained appearance. Well, mostly. He made sure to pull the drain on the tub and put back the brush and the cleaner before he left the room, towel in hand.

The cold wind whipped against the exposed flesh of his hands, his feet, his face, and his neck as he stomped down the front steps. The sun was just starting to peek over the horizon, sending a bluish haze across the sky as the stars retreated into the darkness. He was exhausted, but if Grandma found another sullied towel in the trash bin inside the house she would punish him. He did this quite often, but while Grandma hardly ever mentioned the disappearing towels, she _always_ mentioned a sullied towel found in the trash bin.

He shoved the towel in the large bin outside and hurried back in, shutting the door behind him with a patient care. Getting this far only to slam the door and wake Grandma was not a mistake he planned to make. He hurried up the stairs to the small room Grandma let him use as a bedroom, and practically collapsed onto his cot. Darkness overtook him so quickly that he forgot about his achingly full bladder, a mistake which he would pay dearly for in the morning, but at that moment he cared only for the comforting embrace of Morpheus as the horrors of the world faded around him. He dreamt of himself with a normal face, and a family who loved him.

-

_"Grandma? Grandma— I'm sorry."  
_

_"Oh, Francis. I've never seen a child as dirty and disgusting as you. Look at you! You're soaking wet."_

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**A/N**: Beta'd by me. Point out any mistakes if you have the time. Thanks!


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